Wordless Wednesday - Archipelago of Light

Espresso, Puddles and Light

Temperatures were well below zero overnight, and the village was a noisy place. From my pillow, I could hear the north wind roistering across the roof shingles and through the eaves. It wailed down the chimney, rattled doors and windows, sang through the telephone wires, howled its pleasure in the fine performance it was putting on. In the garden, it whistled through the old board fence, and there was the susurrus of nearby evergreens swaying in unison and talking among themselves. No doubt about it, winter plans to hang about for some time to come.

On an arctic morning in late winter, one is grateful for small things. A square of blue sky can be seen seen through the window when the clouds roll back away for a while, and the deep snow in the garden sparkles wherever sunlight touches it. In the kitchen, there is the aroma of freshly ground coffee beans and toasting sourdough, the cheerful sputtering of the De'Longhi coffee machine in the corner, the warmth of the coffee mug cradled in my gnarly paws. Beau leans sleepily against me with his eyes closed, happy ears and a contented expression. 

Strange as it may seem, even the deep blue snow beyond the windows merits a little attention and gratitude, such graceful curls and waves and billows, so many shades from pastel to indigo, such eye grabbing sculptured shadows. Trudging through icy cold and snowy February, one drinks in colour wherever she finds it.

On our morning walk, Beau and I paused in a pool of sunlight to watch the sun nibble delicately at the edges of a frozen puddle. As cold as the morning was, a little melting was going on, and the evolving concavity was a work of art in progress. 

Sequestered, Week 252 (CCLII)

Sunday, Saying Yes to the World

Winter is a time of withdrawing from the world... but that is where the transformation occurs. Winter is not the death of the life cycle, but its crucible. Once we stop wishing it were summer, winter can be a glorious season in which the world takes on a sparse beauty and even the pavements sparkle. It’s a time for reflection and recuperation, for slow replenishment, for putting your house in order.

Katherine May, Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times

Bunch of Gladness

It is -22 Celsius here this morning including the wind chill, and a little blazing colour seems like a good way to start the day, along with a beaker of espresso and a good book, thermal underpinnings, woolly socks and my favorite shawl. Beau is not impressed and is snoring gently on the sofa with his blankie.

It will be much colder tonight, and a severe weather warning has been issued by Environment and Climate Change Canada. Another whopper of a storm will begin some time this evening and continue until early Monday with at least 16 inches of heavy snow, high winds (up to 48 mph.) and no visibility to speak of. Hydro has advised that there will be downed trees and power outages. Here we go again.

There is no point in starting to dig ourselves out again until the storm has passed, and our snow blowers and shovels are ready to go. We will all be outside together on Monday morning, enthusiastically flinging snow about and keeping a watchful eye on each other for signs of fatigue and physical distress.

This will be the second big "snowing and blowing" in four days. Where on earth are we going to put the white stuff this time? Snow banks here are already almost Himalayan in height, and throwing anything up on them is going to be a challenge.

Valentine's Day

trust your heart 

if the seas catch fire

(and live by love

though the stars walk backward)

e.e. cummings

My soulmate and I usually didn't do anything lavish or opulent for Valentine's Day, and that was just fine with us. I made a card for him with one of my photos or graphic designs, and as awful as some of my efforts were, he cherished them—after he passed away, I discovered he had saved them all, every single one. I saved the valentines he gave me too, and the last one is still on my bureau.

A special pot of tea was brewed, tiny cookies were made in heart shapes, and a token was sometimes carved into a piece of fruit: a smile, a kiss, a heart, a dove, a lover's knot. We shared a single piece of decadent dark chocolate (Hummingbird, Purdy, Meybol or Vigdis Rosenkilde) and went for a long walk in the woods with our canine companions, first Cassie, then Spencer, then (and still with me) sweet Beau.

There were no special declarations of love on February 14th, and no need for them.  We told each other how we felt every day, and we were content with the way this day unfolded, no frilly gestures and lovey-dovey professions. We knew how we felt about each other, how good we were together, how fortunate we were to find each other many years ago and be able to walk through this world together.

This year, there is a handmade card on Irv's bureau, and I drew a heart in the snow in the garden. There is a mug of tea (Earl Grey) and a plate of his favorite cookies on the old oak table in the dining room. Beau and I will walk in the woods this afternoon, and my beloved will be with us in spirit, tucked safe and warm in the pocket of my parka. We will tell him we love him as we did every day when he was here on earth, and as we still do, every single day. Wishing you deep and abiding love too.

Thursday Poem - Don't wait for something beautiful to find you.

Go out into the weather-beaten world
where straw men lean on frozen fields
and find the cardinal's scarlet flash of wing,
a winter heart, a feathered hope.

Without a camera or a memory,
we travel these old country roads,
turn corners like the pages of a book,
enchanted by the ordinary life

of fields and rocks and woods,
of small wild creatures stirring in the brush.
We take home pockets full of myths
and wonders seldom seen.

We will not give up easily,
Across the breakfast table
in our precarious nest,
we make those promises keep on going

that no one ever keeps. And yet...
there is the cardinal again,
a finial on our old gray fence.
Red is for Valentines.

Dolores Stewart 

This morning's poem is reprinted with permission from my late friend Dolores Stewart's exquisite volume of poetry, The Nature of Things. 

Wordless Wednesday - Flowering February

The Church of Winter Trees

The park is hushed at this hour of the morning. Clouds conceal the sky from here to there, and they hold the promise of snow. The silent trees along the trail are baroque columns holding up the winter day, and perhaps the whole world. The interlaced branches over our heads are cathedral arches dusted with fresh snowfall.

Now and then, the wind dislodges snowflakes, and they fall to earth, glittering faintly in the murk and whispering softly as they come to rest among the trees.

To walk along the trail would be a fine thing, but the thought of marking the pristine snow with our footprints is troubling. There is no need to announce our presence here or publish a claim to these moments and their perfect trappings. We will simply stand here and watch as the light dances around us and everything unfolds.

Sequestered, Week 251 (CCLI)

Sunday, Saying Yes to the World

As a poet I hold the most archaic values on earth. They go back to the upper Paleolithic: the fertility of the soil, the magic of animals, the power-vision in solitude, the terrifying initiation and rebirth, the love and ecstasy of the dance, the common work of the tribe. I try to hold both history and wilderness in mind, that my poems may approach the true measure of things and stand against the unbalance and ignorance of our times.

Gary Snyder, from A Controversy of Poets

A gathering (or group) of poets is a controversy? It would also be a good word for a bunch of salty, independent, elderly women. A controversy of crones? I like it.

And Away We Go...

Friday Ramble - Wishful Stirrings

Another icy morning, motes of sunlight scattering like stars in the cold air, an icy wind that goes right to the bones and makes a valiant effort to flash freeze one's whole metabolism, the parts not already frozen, that is. Underwhelming to say the least, and I am not alone in my disgruntlement. When I tried to entice Beau into going outside a few minutes ago, he peered out into the garden, gave me a filthy look, turned his back on the door (and me) and trotted back to bed.

At times like these, exotic spices and culinary offerings from faraway places go dancing through one's sconce, clattering their cymbals and shaking their tambourines. The morning's opening gambit is an espresso strong enough to walk on and a lovely stack of cookbooks from warmer corners of the great wide world. There is already a heap of recipe books on the library table, but a few others will be added before I plunk myself down in the Morris chair to sip and ponder and scheme. Of course, there are several garden catalogues lying around the house too. Cherokee Purple, Indigo Rose, Brandywine and Queen of the Night heirloom toms are calling me. 

There will be an Asian concoction today, something improvised, serendipity and redolent of aromatic spices. Whatever is stirred up will likely contain saffron or turmeric, pepperoncini, tamarind paste, perhaps pomegranate seeds or an anise star or two. Just seeing a dish of saffron threads always cheers me up. My departed soulmate and I cultivated autumn blooming crocuses in our garden for years and tried to harvest saffron threads, but squirrels loved the stuff as much as we do and always made off with the corms. Perhaps I will try again this year. Aha you say, the old hen is thinking about the herb and veggie gardens to come. Indeed, I am.

The day's culinary adventures will conjure sunlight and warmth and comfort. All three are welcome when one can't wander about with a camera for fear of going base over apex on sneaky ice, and her canine companion refuses to go out. There is an element of ritual to this morning's activities - perhaps my saffron threads and wishful stirrings will be noticed by Lady Spring, wherever she is hiding. If not, the dazzling reds and oranges and yellows are indecently sumptuous, and they make my heart glad. 

Thursday Poem - Everything Is Waiting for You

Your great mistake is to act the drama

as if you were alone. As if life

were a progressive and cunning crime

with no witness to the tiny hidden

transgressions. To feel abandoned is to deny

the intimacy of your surroundings. Surely,

even you, at times, have felt the grand array;

the swelling presence, and the chorus, crowding

out your solo voice. You must note

the way the soap dish enables you,

or the window latch grants you freedom.

Alertness is the hidden discipline of familiarity.

The stairs are your mentor of things

to come, the doors have always been there

to frighten you and invite you,

and the tiny speaker in the phone

is your dream-ladder to divinity.

Put down the weight of your aloneness and ease into

the conversation. The kettle is singing

even as it pours you a drink, the cooking pots

have left their arrogant aloofness and

seen the good in you at last. All the birds

and creatures of the world are unutterably

themselves. Everything is waiting for you.

David Whyte, from River Flow: New and Collected Poems

Wordless Wednesday - Still Standing

Out of the White Stuff, a Reminder

For all our weariness of the long white season and its trappings, it gifts us with a surprise now and then, occasionally something like this morning's image.

Pleasing bits of gnarly enchantment protrude from the snow now and again, and they are wonderful to see, powerful reminders of the vanished season's warmth and light, its glorious coloration and fragrance. They always seem to awaken something within, and I am reminded of a quote from Albert Camus. “In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer."

The dried fronds, wands and seed heads emerging from the snow and coming back into the light are wonderfully bendy, and they have curving, sinuous shapes. There is just a hint of the vibrant hues they once wore. Perhaps their appearance out of the white stuff is a sign that winter is "getting old" and warmer days are not far off? We perch in towering snowdrifts and wave at other villagers going by. We watch for signs of winter departing. We think about springtime and nesting owls, about maple syrup gathering, snowdrops and songbirds. We rattle and creak and go on.

Perceptions totter and fade, and they take on strange shapes in late winter. At this time of the year, we need small gifts from the Old Wild Mother (Earth) and reminders of her indwelling wonder and magic, her infinite capacity for change. This morning's aide-mémoire was just a strand of last summer's common tansy poking out of a snowdrift, but it was poignant stuff, and I needed to see it. There has been a lot of wind around here this winter, and I am surprised this one was still standing. 

This evening there was a knock at the door, and I answered it to find a neighbor and his young sons standing on the threshold with their shovels. It snowed today, and the kids thought they would clear my driveway but wanted to ask permission before they started to fling the white stuff about with their father.  That is what living in the village is all about. We watch out for each other. We take care of each other. In these dark and troubling times, that is something to cherish and crow about. 

Sequestered, Week 250 (CCL)

Sunday, Saying Yes to the World

What we need, all of us who go on two legs, is to reimagine our place in creation. We need to enlarge our conscience so as to bear, moment by moment, a regard for the integrity and bounty of the earth. There can be no sanctuaries unless we regain a deep sense of the sacred, no refuges unless we feel a reverence for the land, for soil and stone, water and air, and for all that lives. We must find the desire, the courage, the vision to live sanely, to live considerately, and we can only do that together, calling out and listening, listening and calling out.

Scott Russell Sanders, Writing from the Center

Happy Imbolc (Candlemas or Brigid's Day)

Friday Ramble - For Imbolc (Candlemas)

Here we are on the last day of January, and the eve of Candlemas or Imbolc. Strange to relate, this observance in the depths of winter celebrates light and warmth, the stirring of new life in the earth and the advent of springtime.

In many French speaking countries, February 2nd is also La Chandeleur, a Christian feast commemorating the presentation of the infant Jesus Christ in the temple and the purification of his mother, forty days after she had given birth. The occasion is marked by the blessing of candles, also by dining on crepes which represent the sun and the return of the light to the northern hemisphere.  

For those of us of Celtic lineage, the day is called Imbolc or Candlemas, sometimes the Féile Bride (Festival of St. Brigid) or "Bride's Day". It is consecrated to Brigid, honored as an Irish saint in modern times, but hallowed as a Tuatha Dé Danann goddess many centuries before the coming of Christianity. Brigid is a deity of fire and creativity, wisdom, eloquence and craftsmanship, patroness of the forge and the smithy, poetry, fertility and the healing arts, especially midwifery. Light is her special province. Hers are the candle, the hearth and the blacksmith's forge.

Made of light ourselves, we are Brigid's unruly  children. We were forged from the dust of stars which lighted the heavens billions of years ago, went super nova at the end of their time and dissolved back into the cosmos. Within the radiant motes of our being are encoded the wisdoms of the ancient earth and all its cultures, the star knowledge of unknown constellations and "The Big Bang" which created not just our own precious world, but the whole cosmic sea in which it floats..

We are recycled matter, our dancing particles having assembled into diverse life forms over and over again, lived and expired as those life forms, then vanished into the stream of existence to emerge as something else.  The universe never wastes a thing, and we could learn a lot from her.  In our time, “we” have been many things, worn many shapes and answered to many names. In this lifetime I exist as a tatterdemalion, specific and perhaps unique collection of wandering particles called Catherine or Cate, but in previous incarnations, I was someone or something altogether different.

Buddhist teacher and deep ecologist Joanna Macy has written that since every particle in our being goes back to the first flaring of space and time, we are as old as the universe itself, about fifteen billion years. We are the universe, and it is us.

I cherish my small festival observances. Food is made with ingredients associated with sunlight and abundance: eggs, butter, saffron and honey, sweet potatoes, a little greenery to invoke springtime. Such things often feature in my culinary efforts anyway, so there may be a ritual element in my kitchen doings all year long. I like to think so. There will be lunch with a dear friend today, and small gifts will be exchanged. I will light a candle at nightfall and nest it in a snowdrift in the garden. Wading into the white stuff with a candle and matches will be good fun.

Happy Imbolc to you and your clan, happy Candlemas and St. Brigid's Day. May warmth and the manifold blessings of Light be yours.

Thursday Poem - The Road

Here is the road: the light

comes and goes then returns again.

Be gentle with your fellow travelers as they

move through the world of stone and stars

whirling with you yet every one alone.

The road waits.

Do not ask questions but when it invites you

to dance at daybreak, say yes.

Each step is the journey; a single note the song.

Arlene Gay Levine

(from Bless the Day: Prayers and Poems to Nurture Your Soul)

Wordless Wednesday - The Visitor

In My Cups

It is still dark outside, and through the window comes the clatter of the wind across the roof, the susurrus of snow falling in the engulfed garden. Here in the kitchen, there is the burble and hiss of the De'Longhi espresso machine, the rattle and hum of the refrigerator in the corner. 

By rights, there should be the sound of a toaster too, but it will be an hour or so before I can even think about toast. I have awakened with a migraine - thought about doing prescription meds when I opened my eyes but opted for a beaker of industrial strength espresso instead. The stuff in my cup approaches the consistency of solid propellant rocket fuel and could be dispatched with a fork. Steam rises in arty curls from the surface, and a splendid darker froth rings its shores. The fragrance of freshly ground Cafe Union espresso beans from their roastery in Montreal is ambrosial. Think I will draw pictures in the foam. Yup, I can do this.

Why is it my thoughts always turn to Paris when the weather is like this? With badass beaker in hand, I am looking through my rainy day "stash" of Cavallini rubber stamps, vintage postcards and notebooks - the little ones with maps of France, old French postage stamps or the Eiffel tower gracing their covers. Then there is a recent (bargain) addition to my cookbook collection, François-Régis Gaudry's loving tribute to the culinary treasures of his hometown, "Let's Eat Paris". His creation is worth it for the Leeks Vinaigrette and Béarnaise recipes alone. 

When the migraine has expired in my espresso sea, I will curl up in a corner and read something in French, perhaps the latest Fred Vargas.

Sequestered, Week 249 (CCXLVIX)

Sunday, Saying Yes to the World

We are all longing to go home to some place we have never been—a place half-remembered and half-envisioned we can only catch glimpses of from time to time. Community. Somewhere, there are people to whom we can speak with passion without having the words catch in our throats. Somewhere a circle of hands will open to receive us, eyes will light up as we enter, voices will celebrate with us whenever we come into our own power. Community means strength that joins our strength to do the work that needs to be done. Arms to hold us when we falter. A circle of healing. A circle of friends. Someplace where we can be free.

Starhawk, Dreaming the Dark

From the Edge on a Winter Morning

Friday Ramble - Seeing Red

Beyond the window is an ocean of white that goes on forever and ever. Weary of ice and snow, I have been longing to have my morning cuppa out on the deck, but I will not be doing that for quite a while. The best I can do is stand inside the doors with my mug and look out wistfully. At the rate we are going, we may not even see the garden before the end of April, and there won't be any greenery showing until the long weekend in May. A little bright color is a fine thing right about now, and it is welcomed with open arms when it turns up out of the blue.

While pottering in a local market a few weeks ago, a tin bucket of tulips caught my eye, and I scooped up a bunch in assorted colors, carrying them home as tenderly as if they were fledgling birds. The whites, pinks, purples, oranges and yellows were fine stuff, but the scarlets were nothing short of amazing - attention grabbers of the first order. My find was a bucket full of gladness and then some.

In an old cut glass vase (a flea market find), the velvety petals and bright green leaves didn't merely light up the day - they lighted up everything else around here too. One tulip would have been enough, but a whole bouquet was almost indecently sumptuous, a way to invoke spring, even if the only blooming was indoors and in my thoughts. My tulips were a small magic that conjured gladness and made the gnarly bringer of blooms (me) feel like doing the tango with a tulip in her teeth. 

From now until spring, there has to be a pot, a crock, a bucket, a vase or a tankard of something flowering near the south facing window. I think about how beautiful a single garden rose will look there when summer comes, and it seems to me that such thoughts are not just about a vase of tulips or a single rose, but about all the boundless gardens of the earth coming into riotous, intoxicating bloom.

Thursday Poem - Straight Talk From Fox

Listen says fox it is music to run

over the hills to lick

dew from the leaves to nose along

the edges of the ponds to smell the fat

ducks in their bright feathers but

far out, safe in their rafts of

sleep. It is like

music to visit the orchard, to find

the vole sucking the sweet of the apple, or the

rabbit with his fast-beating heart. Death itself

is a music. Nobody has ever come close to

writing it down, awake or in a dream. It cannot

be told. It is flesh and bones

changing shape and with good cause, mercy

is a little child beside such an invention. It is

music to wander the black back roads

outside of town no one awake or wondering

if anything miraculous is ever going to

happen, totally dumb to the fact of every

moment's miracle. Don't think I haven't

peeked into windows. I see you in all your

seasons making love, arguing, talking about

God as if he were an idea instead of the grass,

instead of the stars, the rabbit caught

in one good teeth-whacking hit and brought

home to the den. What I am, and I know it, is

responsible, joyful, thankful. I would not

give my life for a thousand of yours.

Mary Oliver, from Redbird

Wordless Wednesday - Coming to Light

Espresso, Icicles, Words Gone Walkabout

I awaken before sunrise and brew a lovely espresso in the De'Longhi, then stumble into the study to write a blog post, trying not to drop the dear little beaker clutched in my arthritic paws. The crema on this morning's effort is to die for, and so is the sumptuous fragrance. Pleasing curls of steam rise from the surface. Yum.

One or two recent photos are OK, but I can't for the life of me figure out what to say about them. The words simply will not come. For someone who spends so much time with her nose in a book or thinking about the provenance of words, their reluctance to show up and pirouette into place is a distressing state of affairs. 

Perhaps the biting cold has something to do with it. When Beau and I ventured out into the sleeping garden this morning, dark clouds obscured the sky, and the thermometer out on the deck registered a temperature way below zero.  It is sunny now, and the skies overhead are brilliantly blue, but oh, the antarctic contours of the day...

During the present cold snap, older houses in the village have grown some fabulous icicles. When sunlight shines through them, they shimmer and dazzle, and they seem to hold the whole universe within their glossiness. One can almost forget what a gelid and windy undertaking it is, the restless enterprise of trying to capture them with a camera. The best place to take photos of icicles is often right underneath them, and doing such a thing is reckless, but sometimes I do it anyway. Beau (of course) sits several feet away and is safe from falling ice.